Life Goes On
by Just Groovy
Summary: **Complete!** Scott’s life is falling apart. Everything that he thought mattered is just a game, and real life is painful beyond belief. This is the story of Scott’s pre-Horizon downward spiral. Please R&R!
1. Ob La Di, Ob La Da…

Disclaimer: I do not own any Higher Ground characters. I made up the plot, and several characters (Toby, Jenny, Sarah, and Styner). I also don't own the song "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da" by the Beatles. But it is a groovy song and one of my favorites.

* * *

_"Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on. Fa-la-la how the life goes on." _

Scott reached across the gearshift and slapped at the car radio, turning it off. Stupid oldies. The driver glared at him, tightening his fingers on the steering wheel. 

"That was the Beatles, man. You just don't turn the radio off on the Beatles." 

"Shut up, Toby," Scott said. He lit up a cigarette and stuck it in his mouth, sucking absentmindedly. "Who cares what you think. Besides, aren't all them dead, anyway?" 

"No!" Toby changed lanes without using his turn signal. A car honked. "Not all…ah, just screw it, man. You don't care." He took the cigarette out of Scott's hand and took a drag. "You wanna go home?" 

"No," Scott said sharply. 

"Sorry," Toby replied. "Just a question. Jeez. You get so worked up over everything." Scott snatched the cigarette back. 

"Let's go get the girls," Scott said. "Jenny should be off work by now, and what's-her-name—that stupid girlfriend of yours is too lazy to have a job—or a life." 

"Her name's _Sarah_.And look who's talking," Toby retorted. "When have you ever worked?" 

"I have football." 

"Yeah, uh huh." Toby frowned and honked at a car in the lane next to them. "Don't you have practice, like, now?" 

"Whatever." Scott leaned his head back at chewed on the end of the cigarette. He did have practice, but it didn't matter so much. Football was just a game. Life was what was real. And it was a pain in the butt. "Are we going to get the girls or what?" 

"Fine, fine." Toby pulled a u-turn in the next intersection and sped in the other direction. 

"And then we'll all go get stoned." Scott laughed. "Perfect end to a freakin' perfect day, eh Tobe?" 

"Sure, Scott, whatever." 

"Thought so." Scott leaned over the side of Toby's convertible and tossed his cigarette butt onto the street. 

They got to Jenny's house in a few minutes. Sarah, Toby's girlfriend, was lounging on the front step, headphones on, filing her nails. Jenny was out on the front lawn, screaming at her neighbor. Scott hopped out of the car and jogged over to her. 

"Just shut your fat mouth!" Jenny yelled, her pretty face contorted into a look of anger. "You don't know what the hell you're talking about!" 

"I live here!" the neighbor screeched back. She was an ancient woman, indignant and seriously angry. "And I have every right to tell you to keep the noise down! Every night—_every_ night—you have those terrible parties, and you all make so much noise—" 

"I like those parties," Scott interrupted. "And if you have a problem with my girl here, then you can move your grumpy old ass out of this neighborhood." 

Shocked, the woman stared at him, her mouth opening and closing several times. Finally, she turned around and stalked back into her house, slamming the door shut. 

Jenny laughed aloud and turned, flinging her arms around Scott enthusiastically. "Hey, hottie," she said. "Got plans for tonight?" 

"You bet," Scott answered. "Wanna go flying?" 

She traced a finger down his lips. "How high?" 

"Oh, very high. Very high indeed." 

"Count me in." 

"Scott!" Toby called from the car. "You guys joining us?" 

"Yeah, Toby," Scott called back. "Keep your shirt on." 

"Life awaits," Jenny said, taking Scott's hand. "Or some distortion of life." 

"That it does," he replied quietly. They walked back to Toby's car and got into the backseat. Toby started the car and pulled away from the curb. Scott couldn't help but think that Sarah looked like a sloth, half-dead, draped over her seat and Toby's shoulder. He snorted and pulled Jenny closer. 

"Getting frisky?" she asked. 

"Not in my car, he's not," Toby said without turning around. "What were you carrying on about, Jen?" 

"Stupid neighbor doesn't like my parties," she said. 

"I do," Toby and Scott said at the same time. Sarah shifted slightly and melted back into her seat. 

"Where to?" Toby asked. 

"Your place," Scott responded. 

"It's always my place," he complained, putting an arm around Sarah's uncaring form. Scott wondered how she had gotten into the car. She didn't seem alive. 

"My parents are home tonight," Jenny explained. "And Scott's mom and dad are always around." 

"_Step_-mom," Scott corrected. 

"Whatever," Jenny said. "And Sarah's house is crawling with her little brothers and sisters, isn't it, Sare?" Sarah might have grunted. Scott couldn't tell for sure. "And that leaves your place." 

"I know, I know," Toby said. "As long as Scott brought the stuff." 

"We're good," Scott assured him. "Jenny has the stuff, and I brought some beer." Toby nodded and turned on the radio. More oldies. "Change the station, man." 

"Idiotic basta…" Toby's voice trailed off as he changed the station to some kind of heavy metal music. Scott bobbed his head. This was more acceptable. 


	2. …Life Goes On…

Disclaimer: I do not own any Higher Ground characters. I made up the plot, and several characters (Toby, Jenny, Sarah, and Styner). I also don't own the song "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da" by the Beatles. But it is a groovy song and one of my favorites.

* * *

The coach's whistle echoed through the locker room. "Why the heck aren't you guys on the field?" he demanded, striding in. "Fifteen minutes is plenty to get out of school and into your practice jerseys." 

Several players mumbled apologies or excuses, scooting out past the coach and onto the field. Coach Styner put a hand on Scott's shoulder as he walked by. 

"Yeah, Coach?" 

"Stay a minute, Barringer. I want to talk to you." 

Scott shrugged and sat down on a bench, watching his teammates stream by him. When the locker room emptied completely, he looked to Styner expectantly. A lecture, he knew, was forthcoming. A lecture that he did not want to hear. 

"Scott, you've missed the last three practices," the older man said. "And when you're on the field, you're distracted. You miss easy plays; you talk trash. I don't know what's going on with you, but I don't like it." 

"I'm sorry," Scott said mechanically. 

"Yeah, I'll bet you are." His coach studied him. "You don't look a bit sorry." 

"What do you want?" Scott asked, rising. "An official statement? I'm sorry, Coach, sir, that I'm a human being, and I happen to lose my temper occasionally, just like every other human being in the world." 

"That's enough, Scott!" Styner pushed Scott back onto the bench firmly. "I expect good, sportsmanlike conduct from my players. And you are not displaying that. You show no responsibility, no caring, nothing! I need to see that you're committed to the sport!" 

"It's just a game," Scott spat out. "It's just a _game_." 

"This is your warning, Barringer," Styner said. "You get out there on the field and shape up. One more incident, one more missed practice or game, anything, and you're off of this team. Got it?" 

"Whatever." 

"I hope you'll make a good choice," Coach Styner continued, ignoring Scott's response. He started out to the field, then turned back. "And Scott?" 

"What?" 

"This is a drug-free team. You use, and you're off." 

He left the locker room, and Scott stood up, throwing his helmet across the room and kicking a locker. His cleats left a good dent in it. Football. Just a game? It had been his life. His entire life. And now it was just a game. 

Scott retrieved his helmet and went out onto the field. Time to play the game again. 

When he got out there, he saw Jenny sitting in the bleachers, waving at him. He waved back. She beckoned him over. 

"Wanna blow practice again?" she asked when he got over. "My folks aren't home." 

"Nah," Scott said. "Coach just raked me over the coals. Gotta lie low for a bit." 

"Huh," was her response. "I'll catch you later then, Scott." Without waiting for him to reply, she took off, leaving the bleachers, leaving the stadium. Scott watched her go. 

"Barringer!" Coach Styner yelled. "Get over here! Come on, let's get going!" 

Scott jogged over and practice began. It didn't go very well. 

It seemed that every pass Scott received, he fumbled. Every interception he should have made, he missed. Every tackle he should have dodged, he was taken down. It wasn't a good practice. Every time he screwed up, Coach Styner would yell for him to concentrate on the play, and his teammates would exchange looks. It was those looks that did it for Scott. 

He missed a pass that, any other day, he would have easily caught. Trying to ignore Styner's angry rebuke, Scott saw one of his teammates glance worriedly at another. In an instant, Scott was over there, throwing his helmet down and spitting out his mouth guard, grabbing at the boy's jersey, bringing their faces close together. 

"Shut up!" he screamed. "I don't need your looks, your comments! Keep them to yourself!" 

"_Scott_!" Styner grabbed him from behind and hauled him back. "Get over to the bench. _Now_!" 

"No!" Scott shouted. He jerked himself free and spun on his coach. "Don't you tell me what to do. What the hell you know? You think football's all that? Huh? It's nothing! Nothing! None of you get it!" 

"That's it," Coach Styner said, his voice tightly controlled. "I warned you, son. You're off the team." 

"What!?" Scott looked startled. He backed away from his coach, away from his teammates. "You can't…I'm not…" 

"You hear me?" Styner did not look happy. "Get off this field." 

"No." 

"Let me make this real clear to you, Barringer," Styner said, walking over to Scott. The team stared. "You're off. Now. I won't put up with your fighting, your disrespect. Get off the field." 

Scott looked around. No one was coming forward to plead his case. No one said anything. Everyone was silent, watching, observing. Their eyes bore into him. Were these the same people who had comforted him when he dropped passes or had a bad game? Their eyes watching, silent and boding. 

It was just a game. None of this mattered. It wasn't life. It was a game. 

"Barringer, I said get _off_." 

He turned and ran. Ran from the field, from the game. Back into life. The life he hated, even though it went on. Life went on. 


	3. …Fa La La…

Disclaimer: I do not own any Higher Ground characters. I made up the plot, and several characters (Toby, Jenny, Sarah, and Styner). I also don't own the song "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da" by the Beatles. But it is a groovy song and one of my favorites.

* * *

Martin Barringer held the telephone receiver tightly against his ear. He felt his world crashing down in slow motion, piece by piece. Scott was off the football team. He hadn't even quit—he'd been _thrown_ off. 

He didn't even know Scott anymore. For a few months now, Scott had become so distant and unresponsive. He was an entirely different boy than the one Martin had taken full custody of when his ex-wife left. He was gone all day, skipped school, disrespected Elaine… 

And now this. The phone call from Coach Styner, who had said bluntly that he believed Scott may be on drugs. Drugs. Could he be? 

Martin said thank you, and then goodbye stiffly to the coach, hanging the receiver back on the hook. Elaine came up behind him, circling her arms around his waist. He leaned back into the embrace thankfully. 

"Who was that?" 

"Coach Styner," Martin said slowly. "Scott's been kicked off the team. And the coach thinks he's on drugs." 

Elaine pulled away with a slight gasp, and Martin turned to face her. She looked distraught. "Scott? _Our _Scotty? Drugs?" 

"I don't understand," Martin said, sinking into a kitchen chair. "He loved football. Football was his life." 

"We'll talk to him," Elaine promised. "We'll get this all sorted out. There must be some mistake. Scott's going through a very stressful time in his life…I mean, _I_'m probably causing some problems." 

"Don't say that." Martin shook his head. "Scott adores you. There's no problem with you. You're a wonderful stepmother to him. This whole thing. It must be drugs. He must've gotten in with the wrong crowd. But don't blame yourself, Elaine. None of this has to do with you. You're one of the good things in his life." 

Elaine smiled. As she leaned down to kiss Martin on the cheek reassuringly, they heard the front door swung open. Hastily, she pulled back, and Martin put a hand on her shoulder. 

"Let's go talk to him," he said quietly. "Together." 

She nodded, and they went to the front hall. Scott had retreated upstairs to his room immediately upon entering the house, so they followed the muddy cleat marks up the stairs to Scott's room. Martin knocked. 

"Go away!" 

Ignoring him, Martin shoved the door open, and he and Elaine entered. Scott stood by his bed, dressed only in his football pants, his practice jersey and pads lying in a tangled heap by the bed. He turned to face the couple defiantly. 

"I told you to go away," he snapped. "I'm changing." 

"I don't care what you're doing," Martin said. "We need to talk, now." 

"Screw that! I'm gonna go take a shower." As he walked toward the door, Elaine put her hand lightly on his chest to stop him. He instantly recoiled. "Don't touch me, skank!" 

"Scott!" Martin grabbed his son by the arm and jerked him backwards, away from Elaine. "Don't let me ever, _ever_ hear you talk like that to Elaine. You owe her respect. She's your stepmother." 

"Let go of me." Scott spoke through clenched teeth. He pulled his arm out of his father's grip. "Leave me alone." 

"Coach Styner called," Martin said. "He said he threw you off the football team. _Threw _you off! Says you never come to practice, you're insolent, you're obnoxious." Scott looked away angrily. Martin grabbed his chin and forced the teen to look at him. "Scott, he says you're on drugs!" 

Scott glared at his father, not pulling away. "So what? You believe that jerk of a coach? He doesn't know what he's talking about!" 

Martin released him and reeled backwards. "I've suspected it, Scott. I've thought it might be true. But it is, isn't it?" He shook his head slowly, no longer recognizing his son. It was his son's body, but it wasn't him inside. "_Isn't it_?" 

"Get out." 

"We'll get you help, Scott," Martin assured him. "It'll all be okay." He left the room, looking older and more haggard than he had upon entering. 

"Get out, skank," Scott said. 

Elaine advanced on him again. She put a hand lightly on his bare shoulder. He flinched. "Don't worry, Scotty," she purred. "I'll come visit you tonight. Make you feel lots better." 

"No." The word, meant to be strong and absolute, was weak and whispered. 

"You know you want it." Elaine's seductive voice covered a laughing undertone.

_She's laughing at me_, Scott thought._ She's playing a game. A game. _

"Tonight," she said softly. "Tonight, Scotty." And then she was gone. 

Shower forgotten, Scott collapsed onto his bed. His stomach heaved, and his throat ached. Why, every day, did life go on so maliciously? Why? He felt sick, disgusted, and angry. Every day hurt so bad. 

Rolling off his bed, Scott walked over to his desk and opened a drawer. He withdrew a small plastic baggie filled with a white powder. He had no energy to go to Jenny's party tonight—or even to call Toby and invite himself over to his house. He'd just have to have his own little "party" here. 

Opening the baggie, Scott frowned. Life went on, but as Jenny often said, a distortion of life was quite preferable. 


	4. …How the Life Goes On

Disclaimer: I do not own any Higher Ground characters. I made up the plot, and several characters (Toby, Jenny, Sarah, and Styner). I also don't own the song "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da" by the Beatles. But it is a groovy song and one of my favorites.

* * *

Jenny and Scott sat across a booth from each other in a small diner, a milkshake with two straws between them. The radio played the greatest hits from 1968. Jenny's hands fumbled with her straw wrapper. "I have to talk to you, Scott." 

"Sure." 

"Why didn't you come to my party last night? Or to Toby's house the night before? And the night before that?" 

"Dunno." 

"You always 'dunno!'" Jenny's voice rose, then she checked herself and lowered it. "Where have you been?" 

"At home." 

"Home, huh?" Jenny tore the wrapper in half. "What's so great about home? Watching old family movies with daddy? Getting the birds and the bees lecture from your mom?" 

"Leave it alone, Jenny," Scott warned, feeling his heartbeat quicken. 

"Ohh," she said. "It's mommy, isn't it? What, she won't let you come out and play?" 

"Shut up." 

"Scott, this is crazy. I don't know what's up with you." She sounded so upset. "What kind of boyfriend are you if you don't ever seem to want to see me? You're always at home doing whatever, and you— Look, Scott, this isn't working." 

"So you wanna break it off." He said it as a statement, not a question. 

"Yeah." Was that sadness in her face? "It's just not gonna work. You don't care." 

"Fine." She was right. Scott didn't care, and this extreme lack of feeling scared him. "Whatever." 

"I thought so," Jenny said quietly. She stood up and dropped the pieces of her straw wrapper on the table. Without another word, she walked away. Scott stared at the bits of paper wrapper on the table in silence. 

"Remember, we're playing the greatest hits of 1968 today. That was 'Judy in Disguise' by Fred, John, and His Playboy Band. Next up is 'Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da' by the greatest band of all time…the Beatles!"

The chords began. Scott listened calmly to the song, _really_ listening to it for the first time. Desmond had a barrow—whatever the heck a 'barrow' was—and liked Molly for her face. So Molly told him life goes on.

Life goes on. 

How could life go on if it sucked so much? Scott stood up and watched as his own fist flew across the table of the booth, connecting with the milkshake. It soared off the edge of the table and broke on the floor; pieces of glass and lumps of milkshake bounced up, spattering the air. 

As a waitress hurried over, Scott pulled himself away from the booth, away from the mess, and ran for the door. He didn't need to pay the bill. Life would go on. He didn't need to apologize. Life would go on. 

He walked along the streets for a long time. People and cars passed by, but Scott didn't notice. He walked listlessly, boredly. A car honked at him, and he ignored it. 

"Hey, Scott!" Toby. He turned. Toby pulled over to the curb, leaning out of the convertible. "What's up, man? Your dad called my place looking for you. You okay?" 

"I'm okay." 

"Something's wrong, isn't it?" Toby asked. "Come on, we'll go to a party. Get high. Have fun. Forget the rest of the crap." 

"Jenny and I broke up." Scott stared at Toby without seeing him. 

"We won't go to her party," Toby promised. "A different one. Come on, Scott. Get in the car." 

Scott felt an overwhelming urge to cry. He shrank away from the convertible. "I don't wanna go home." 

"We aren't going home." Toby looked confused. "A _party_, man." He studied Scott. "Are you high?" 

Scott didn't know. He might have been. He got into the passenger's side of the car, and Toby pulled away from the curb. "Life goes on, Tobe." 

"Sure it does, Scott." 

"Ob-la-di, ob-la-da," Scott added. 

"Beatles, eh?" Toby laughed. "Knew I'd make a fan of you yet." 

Scott pretended to laugh too, although it really wasn't funny. He stared out at the streetlights as they drove by. They would come on when it got dark, but it wasn't dark yet. It wouldn't get dark for a few more hours. 

They went to the party. It wasn't much of a party—more of a small, select gathering. Scott remembered little of it afterward, but he had vague recollections of watching static on an ancient television set with Toby and a few other people. 

When they left, two other guys asked for rides home. Toby assented, and they set out in his convertible, Scott messing around with the radio until he found his favorite heavy metal station. 

It was just starting to get dark. Toby turned on his headlights, even though he didn't need them yet. Scott watched them make patterns on the street ahead while the two guys in the backseat zoned and Toby concentrated on driving. They got to Scott's house in a matter of minutes. 

He climbed out of the car, one of the others immediately taking the front seat and shutting the door behind him. As he walked toward his front door, he pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and tossed them to Toby. Toby caught them, looking confused, and pulled away. 

Not quite sure why he had done that, Scott spat on the ground and entered his house quietly, pulling his jacket off and dropping it on the floor. 

A noise to the side startled him, and he turned to see Martin and Elaine rise from the couch, where they had been sitting and waiting. He looked to the ground. Packed bags. 

A big, black guy came up from behind Martin and Elaine. _No_. Scott stared at him. The man stared back, advancing slowly. _Crap!_ Scott ran for the stairs. The man tackled him from behind. Like football. It was just a game. His hands were cuffed behind his back. 

"Get off me!" It wasn't a game. It was life. The man hauled him down the stairs, on hand on his wrists and the other at the back of his neck. Hauled him past Martin and Elaine. Out to the car, shoving him in the backseat. 

It wasn't a game; it was life, and it scared Scott deeply. 

* * *

Glancing over at the big, black man sitting beside him in the backseat, Scott wriggled his hands in their plastic cuffs. Nobody spoke, and he knew, without knowing the destination, that it would be a long car ride. 

In the front seat, Martin reached over and flipped on the radio. Elaine fixed her flawless hair again and reapplied her lipstick again. She was watching him, Scott could tell, out of the corner of her eye. 

It would be different, he knew. He'd figured out that they were sending him away. Probably to some reform school. Try to straighten him out. But there would be no Elaine there. No Elaine. They'd confiscate his stash, he was sure, but he'd become resourceful. He could find more drugs. He could escape. 

He heard the opening chords to "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da," and it comforted him. _Life goes on_, he told himself. _Fa-la-la, how the life goes on_. 


End file.
